


we will always remember (how we lit up the night)

by foolshope



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Archie Andrews-centric, Camping, Core Four, Drinking & Talking, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Other, Panic Attacks, Stargazing, Underage Drinking, as always who's surprised, i'm not canon divergent with ships or anything but they're not mentioned at all so shrugshrug, ish, lapslock, lots of overused and vague symbolism, sad kids numbing the pain of their stupid lives in questionable ways together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21591136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolshope/pseuds/foolshope
Summary: “i wish science didn’t ruin stars for me.”
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	we will always remember (how we lit up the night)

**Author's Note:**

> uhh. as always, idk lol. i wanted a starry night underage teens drinking angsty vibe and idk if i succeeded probably not but i don't entirely hate it AND it's been ages since i've been able to write anything and i wanna post something. anything. at any point. but i'm also?? kinda happy the timing of posting this is actually mildly appropriate? which has never happened before so go me ! 
> 
> this entire oneshot is kinda pointless and has no structure, but archie pulled through as my main muse so i was able to actually string sentences together, even if it's... yeah, kinda pointless. whatever. i'm proud of me for writing at all. T~T 
> 
> vague spoilers for 4x07, nothing much. you just needa know these are post-thanksgiving shenanigans.
> 
> rated t cause it's sad kids getting shitfaced thanksgiving night cause their lives suck. vomit is mentioned.
> 
> lyrics from twinkling lights - annalise emerick

_cause there's something about a fire,_  
_and a couple rounds of beer._  
_and we'll tell em all our dreams,_  
_love for all to hear._

* * *

flames flicker oil sheen at the edges, curling like wounded snakes into the backdrop of branches reaching for them from the dark, everything else a void of pitch and moonlight beams cast astray, loose firelight joining forces to bounce off the distant orbs watching them from safe nooks and crannies in the endless mass of bared trees. he wonders which creature of the night belongs to the pair watching him now, blinking scarcely when it thinks he’s not looking, still as a statue otherwise and silent as the dead. he stares back with a glimmer of his own, campfire and alcohol glaze going wide, sinking and swimming to lock with the solidity that stares back at him unflinching, a talent he thought he forged in blood and sweat months ago, but perhaps it’s time he thought again. 

something shifts, a distant snicker, as if reading his mind itself, and the orbs vanish into the black, racoon fingers scratching soft at underbrush as it goes. he finds himself snickering in reply, shoulders hitching on the movement, eyelids dropping low, and he lists, feels his shoulder bump another’s. too warm hands grapple with him, shove off and away, but light enough that he doesn’t tumble in a tangle of muscle and bone straight into the fire.

“what’s so funny?” familiar, boyish lilt, boyish features creased in slight amusement despite the question, and archie laughs a little harder for a second longer. 

“i don’t know,” he sighs on the giddy aftermath of a chuckle, gaze trickling back to the source of light between the four of them like a moth to flame, icarus to red dwarf star burning, wonders if he’s melting right into the log he’s perched on, sinking low with the heat in his gut and eating away at nature’s fuel with reckless abandon. though, as much as he’d like to, as much as the soft sensation of blurred edges and broken boundaries insists upon, he feels a pang of remorse for the fallen tree bearing their weight with no complaints, wonders how long it lived before it descended back from whence it came, wonders what fell it in the first place. a thunderstorm’s breeze in the summer? flash flooded rivers risen too high, tearing away at roots as it runs along, maybe simply a casualty of the great unknown, dead without reason like so much of the rest of the world around them.

it creaks suddenly, cracks a little as jughead moves beside him and nearly loses his balance on seemingly nothing in particular.

regardless, it’s still dead. just a tree. just a log.

“poor log,” he mumbles, watches jug regain his balance with a scoff and a brush of the dirt from his jean-clad knees, clear bottle clutched tight in fumbling fingers as matching liquid sloshes at the rim. lips twitch, wry and trying to hide in the shade, and he reaches out on impulse and shoves the other the rest of the way to the ground, laughter starting anew with far less restraint than before.

jughead blinks at him with round eyes that quickly narrow into a scowl, contrast to the curl of his lips parting to simply half-gape at him for half a breath. 

“what the hell was that for?” he asks -- a reasonable question, one that archie doesn’t really have an answer to, so he just laughs harder instead, twists out of reach when jug swats at him with his free hand, the other suddenly grappling at thin air. he blinks again, glances to his right to find betty rolling her eyes and taking a swig from the liberated bottle.

“you two are dumb drunks. it’s embarrassing.” 

veronica’s laughter rings clear as archie’s come to a halt, frowning in faux offense while his counterpart in question does the same. 

okay, maybe it’s true. though, he’d take dumb drunk over sad drunk any day, which he found himself quite prone to in the a.m. empty of his bedroom, hollowing flask held in trembling hands as he fights off the shadows like they’re living things, bats at them with eyelids too heavy and too damp for him to actually fall asleep with, stares into them until they writhe and dance and shake into pieces at his feet with bloodshot eyes, until the sun casts its light through windowpane and they evaporate into the nothing that they were all along.

dumb beats sad.

and angry. 

betty continues to glare at the fire like it’s personally offended her since the moment they lit it at cornucopia sunset to the present, sky navy black and scattered pinprick pearl floating overhead like the clouds during the day, swimming and sinking to lock with the solidity that sticks heavy to the soles of his feet, feels like it’s lowering slow a pendulum that threatens to split his skull wide open and swallow up all the things that reside there once and for all, and he almost wishes that it would, for a moment, just a single, fleeting second that tastes like ash and acid in his mouth.

but he blinks, and it’s gone. washed away with the blur to his vision, dribbles something warm and wet from the corner of his left eye to the left corner of his mouth. his tongue dips out of its own accord, catches the bite of salt, and he blinks in surprise. frowns, suddenly dumb, sad, and angry all at once, rubs the feeling from his face like it’s personally offended him and locks gazes with the fire like a wayward son returning home, tethered, anchored back to the present, grounded far, far away from the infinite navy looming at his back and breathing down his neck.

he wants another drink.

but betty looks like she might bite him if he asks so he stands on liquid legs and stumbles to the those branches reaching for him from the dark, gnarled fingers naked and curling and beckoning, his own brushing briefly against them just to feel the calloused lines of wood, nature’s fingerprints pressed to his, aligned in harmony for the blink of an eye before he staggers to his knees without the grace of ageless trunks to hold him up. gravity pulls, tugs, and he leans back, back, touches the earth with his spine, fanned ribcage, knuckles brushing dead grass.

the stars are still watching as if they never stopped. maybe they didn’t. probably. it’d be odd if they did, simply snuffed out of existence unless too old young eyes found them up there, acknowledged their presence, made them so, made them wink and water in response.

he snorts.

“i wish science didn’t ruin stars for me.”

he feels more than sees three pairs of eyes flick toward him, feels the prickle of focus along his arms, hairs rising, skin tight and tightening around muscle. 

“how do you mean?” veronica asks, voice light and crisp as the night air against his ears. he hears shuffled footsteps and deep breathing, then the clumsy rustle of a body reclining next to his. fingernails tickle faint over his hand, there and then gone again, so quick he wonders if it’s as much a figment of his imagination as the countless eyes staring down at him from the gaping nothingness millions of miles overhead.

where does that space begin and end between the ground at his back at those unblinking eyes, watching, waiting, timeless… for what? 

one of the great mysteries of the universe, he supposes.

except, not really, since they’re actually just giant balls of gas floating through the galaxy.

“when i was little, my dad told me --” lungs snag, catch on something, and he swallows to shake them loose, “-- my grandpa was… was watching over us from up there. when i was young enough to believe it, you know, before -- before astronomy and -- and everything else.” 

astronomy and everything else. everything between young eyes studying older ones, unmarred eardrums soaking up every syllable like a man wandering infinite desert, before young eyes grew old and soft flesh rippled to something always moving, never still, before cellos and ski masks and swimming pools.

he picks out one of those pinpricks, a single spot of glitter, steady and still, picks it out and tastes the word ‘father’ on his tongue like a memory, just one of billions because that’s what fred andrews was, just a man, one of billions, one of however many drove on by a broken down car on the side of the road without a second glance that actually gave a double take, slowed to a stop, paused for just a moment.

just a moment. 

there and then gone again. 

a figment of his imagination.

a silhouette framed in orange suddenly appears in his peripheral, something clear and glinting shoved in his personal space until he reaches out to accept it on instinct. skin-warmed glass meets the skin of his palm, sheltered from autumn’s bitter bite with greedy hands and likewise sheltered flame, and he sits up to take a swig of it, basks in the burn, lets it gather in his mouth before swallowing, imagines it scorching his insides in its path to his stomach, setting it alight and warm and safe from the outside world.

betty drops cross-legged on his other side and he can still feel the chill of jughead’s gaze trail up the back of his head, studying his dirtied hair, sweat-slicked despite the temperature at the nape of his neck.

“i hate astronomy,” he hears him say, as if summoned by thought alone, and he feels his lips twitch up at the corners again. he wonders if that’s true or merely meant to console the slight waver in his voice, offer familiar purchase in the tried and true guise of humor. regardless, he’s grateful -- as much as he can be, anyway, while his gaze still lingers soft on that single star.

a snort breaks the silence to his left, faint and almost humorless but not quite. “same. i’m more of an astrology person, myself,” veronica says, her smile audible in the space between the words.

“of course you are,” betty mutters good-naturedly, fingers curling around his to take a quick sip of the bottle before nudging it back into his space. he stares down at the bottleneck, stares at the formless label below without really seeing it.

his lungs suddenly feel three sizes too small and he doesn’t know why.

with a veiled exhale of seeming dismissal, hopefully casual, an easy vehicle in which to politely leave the conversation, he rocks forward to his feet and ignores the way the world wrinkles at the edges, threatening to rip, tear, decides to leave the bottle behind at his feet and his friends’ fingertips.

the wood takes him in with open arms. they feel familiar, somehow, more than any voice, any friendly face, accented by the gaze still watching somewhere far, far above that he tries to ignore, feels its frostbitten sight simmer low and grow hotter til it scalds the back of his neck, the height of his cheeks, burns up from the pit in his stomach to set his mouth on fire and spill out into the dirt. he retches, gags, chokes on the taste of ash and acid on his hands and knees until he can’t tell the dirt from the heavens. he feels a pang of remorse for the ground he sullies, wonders how many careless feet have stomped it into submission, squashed it out of existence, how many it’s carried on its back without a single thanks given in return, how many bodies it’s cradled to wakeless sleep without complaint, without judgement.

the air suddenly feels too heavy to carry, too thick to breathe, and he doesn’t know why.

he never knows why.

he doesn’t know anything.

he doesn’t notice the hands tracing circles into his back, doesn’t hear the shushing hums or words of comfort, doesn’t feel the ground shift beneath his feet and those hands ease him back to sit, away from the pool of his own sick soaking down into earth dried out from the cold and toward the warm bodies at his back. doesn’t feel much of anything, wonders if he’s finally broken apart and fluttered away on the breeze like autumn leaves carried home, scattered compost to feed the soil, purpose found somewhere buried deep in the natural process of decomposition, life found ironically, perhaps poetically, in the throes of death.

he wants to thank the ground, for its tireless presence, always there, upholding, sustaining, without complaint, without judgement, knows somewhere in the deep corners of his mind it’s the alcohol still in his bloodstream, still thick and hot in his veins, funneling acid steam to his brain, poisoned vapors loosening tongue and tear ducts alike until it’s all one big stream overflowing from his lips.

except it’s “sorry” that drips down his chin instead, slurred and jumbled, caught between his teeth before it oozes through and stains the earth a deeper shade of sick, acid, poison. it tastes like the hint of spice in the air, the curdle of mud caked deep in his fingernails, and he breathes it in again through his nose, out through his mouth, chews on the flavor and chokes it out faster than the burn of liquor. it feels a lot like an old friend, older than any voice, any friendly face, yet heavier still than the ever present _watching_ cast down from the sky to settle atop his shoulders like it belongs there.

it’s almost funny, how quick dumb became sad, became brittle bone barely able to hold his own weight, splintered sensations, fractured reality.

almost.

he thinks of his mom. home alone again on the night of thanksgiving, festivities coming and going with the stench of overcooked turkey and hot metal and leaving her to twiddle her thumbs without a single soul for company until she falls asleep. 

he thinks of his mom and wonders what it’s like to be a widow, and being a good son suddenly feels like the single most unattainable life goal somebody could choose, a sun too far and too bright for icarus wings, merely a figment of his imagination. a fool’s errand. 

archie andrews is nothing if not a fool, that’s for certain.

and yet, he’s tired.

he’s always _tired._

“sorry,” he says again, repeats it as if for the first time, goes from groundless spiral to overflowing sensation all at once, to shallow lungs and rushing ears and ghosting hands over his arms, shoulders, back, familiar voices trailing off to gaping nothingness at the sound of his own. 

there’s a beat of silence that sounds more like his heart pulsing blood through his ears before one of those hands squeezes just so over into his collarbone, hot breath fanning against the span of his neck in a drawn out sigh.

“...it’s okay.”

and he nods, because it is, because betty’s always right, and hopes his head won’t topple right off his shoulders. 

“i’m okay,” he says again, repeats it as if that will make it true, and pulls just so away from those hands, wars relief and guilt alike when they let him, relinquish their hold with a reluctance that hangs heavy with the apologies lodged somewhere in his throat and the star still burning holes in his skull, lead dead weight held close like a lifelong companion he doesn’t even know how to begin to let go of.

the bundle of presence retreats further and he lets the empty air pull him back, down, splayed starfish wide like he belongs that way, scattered and flattened and ready to catch the sky.

he goes out on a limb, tries to find that one star again, singled out from all the rest, and wonders if the one he picks out is the same as before or if it’s merely his imagination, plucked from the masses just to substitute a figure he wants so desperately to actually _be there,_ up there, watching over him, or better yet _here,_ stood tall with the bundle of presence at his back, another familiar voice, another friendly face to disappoint again and again but he’d take that over nothing any day.

the weight of the star sits heavy at the center of his chest, sucks the breath right from his lungs like a vacuum shoved deep in his throat and chases away any equilibrium the solid ground might have provided, replaces it with a weightless spiral, watching, waiting, timeless, and he watches back, blinks long and slow at the infinite sea of eyes staring down at him as if conceding a lifelong staring contest.

something warm and wet dribbles from the corner of his eye, wades low in his hairline and follows the strands with gravity to water the dead grass cradling him with infinitely gentle hands.

“happy thanksgiving, dad,” he whispers, to himself, to the trees, to the sky, for only the stars to hear despite the millions of miles of gaping nothingness separating them.

except a distant part of him knows the others hear, despite his best efforts, intentions, always _despite_ that, but he ignores the nudge of self consciousness at the back of his sinuses, swallows it down with the apologies lodged in his throat and hopes it stays down better than the tequila. 

“...we should head back.”

it takes him a beat to process.

he’s not sure who says it, but it’s jughead who appears several moments later with a hand extended in his personal space and there are two pairs of hands bracing his frame when he reaches out to accept it with purpose, campfire-warmed skin meeting the same of his palm and clasping tight to pull him upright.

he wobbles, lists, and sluggish bodies stumble in time but don’t let go, don’t fall, hold tight and steady until the horizon settles silver from the moonlight in the dark.

“easy,” mutters somewhere ahead of him, too many hands to keep track of, and he finds himself mimicking them, grasping tight to too many layers of clothing until the bodies beneath them grow solid and sure with his own. 

the campfire gets stomped into submission, squashed out of existence, and the smell of smoke almost seems to clear his lungs instead of choke them, purge them of impurities, open stiff airways to breathe in the spice from the air as if for the first time. he tastes the crisp scent of frost on the tip of his tongue and lets it gather in his mouth before swallowing, imagines it cooling his insides in its path to his stomach, soothing it still and quiet and safe with the rest of the outside world.

someone sets his coat in his hands and he shrugs it onto shivering shoulders, the chill of late autumn suddenly undeniably apparent, its presence acknowledged, made so by mere notice alone, making his eyes wink and water in response. the breeze sinks deep to bite at his cheekbones, alights them with a cold fire he’s more familiar with as he burrows into his jacket.

a wave of warmth slinks up against his side and he turns to find veronica close by, the entire lower half of her face hidden by the collar of her coat but the light in her eyes betraying the smile masked beneath it from a mile away. he smiles back on instinct, lips twitching back to reveal teeth, wry and trying to hide in the renewed absence of fire and coat collar of his own. she just shakes her head and bumps his shoulder with hers, though it dissipates midway, gets replaced with a head tucked up toward his and he presses his cheek against her hair for as long as the brief moment of gathered belongings lasts.

they begin their trek back to the jalopy on wind whipped rubber legs, lips framing faint tones of off tune christmas carols along the way despite, or perhaps _in_ spite of the day’s date, gazes pinned up and ahead instead of behind. 

_archie_ keeps it like that, anyway, eyes up, front and center, autopilot limbs and brittle bones working to free themselves of the clinging weight of the stars, recalibrating sensations, putting the fractures of reality back together one piece at a time, one step at a time.

he thinks of the room waiting for him back at home, a.m. empty but not entirely alone, familiar voice and friendly face of his one and only family left just down the hall, most likely already asleep, safe and sound.

for a moment, he wonders why he even left.

then jughead starts up _oh christmas tree_ with liquor-heavy lips and betty attempts to harmonize along, gray eyes glittered toward archie’s brown, veronica joining in and elbowing his ribs when he doesn’t follow suit. 

he feels his lips twitch up at the corners again.

he wonders if it’s the alcohol or the festivities that still sing light and bright in their veins, refuses to be extinguished by the bitter cold, hungry shadows, funneled warmth that soothes instead of burns, loosening tongue and muscle alike until it’s all one big stream overflowing from their lips and freeing the last of the remaining stardust from his shoulders.

the earth is solid at the soles of his feet, the sky far, far above where it belongs, and archie lets the sluggish lag in his step fall in time with the three lifelong companions at his side.

and he’s _grateful_ \-- as much as he’s ever been, gaze lingered soft and steady on the shape of the jalopy waiting for them just up ahead.

* * *

_  
and oh, when the fire burns out and the embers all die,_  
_we still have all our stories,_  
_like stars in the sky._  
_and we will always remember how we lit up the night._  
_oh, summers by the lake,_

_like a million twinkling lights._

**Author's Note:**

> i tried to not let this oneshot veer off into heavy angst territory and i'm actually kinda proud of myself for succeeding at least in that jkdvls i kept it light cause i wanted that starry night underage teens drinking vibe to STICK. still, idk if i succeeded there, but i'm proud of myself for trying. participation award goes to me.
> 
> anyways, happy thanksgiving if you celebrate that, and happy day if you don't! and please leave a review if you're feeling up to it, they're literally my lifeblood, even if i'm spotty at replying, please know they mean the WORLD. <3


End file.
